Grateful Dead

One of the popular attractions for tourists in Paris is, believe it or not, a cemetery. This is not just any old cemetery, however. The Père Lachaise cemetery in the 20th arrondissement is, we suppose, Paris’ equivalent of Highgate Cemetery but with several knobs on. Père Lachaise is the final earthly resting place of, amongst others, Edith Piaf, Abelard and Héloïse, Proust, Ingres, Delacroix, Bizet, Balzac and Verdi. The most visited grave is that of Jim Morrison of ‘The Doors’. It’s not unusual to find someone, often a young woman born years after Mr Morrison’s substance abuse assisted death, sobbing by the tomb. The headstone of Oscar Wilde’s tomb, carved by Epstein, is something to see. It’s a winged, naked angel which when erected (apparently that is an appropriate word) it was considered so shocking that the offending member was removed by the cemetery warden and used as a paperweight.

Well, needless to say, we don’t play host to such a range of luminaries in our quiet corner of France. Nevertheless, our cemeteries have a striking style which always causes a reaction from visitors.

Being English, our mental stereotype of a cemetery is the verdant surround of a pretty country church in which headstones of various ages stand, lean or lie on gentle mounds of grass which sometimes, but not always, has a little bowl of flowers at their foot. It therefore came as something of a culture shock for us to encounter our first local cemetery.

Whether it’s just a result of the local (hilly) topography or a conscious cultural statement, the local cemeteries tend to be built on slopes, often quite steep, outside of the town. Grass is only to be seen as a weed growing through the gravel or concrete pathways surrounding the family tombs and graves. The plots themselves, sometimes owned in perpetuity but more often fixed-term tenancies, often have pretty sizeable structures built on top of them. The ‘greenhouse’ structure is the most popular, presumably proving shelter from the rude winter elements. Shelter for whom though? The permanent residents might be thought to be beyond caring. (Mr A has often thought of taking a few seed trays down to the local cemetery in the spring. Mrs A, perhaps wisely, has so far managed to talk him out of this.)

Virtually all graves and tombs are decorated with fake flowers and with photographs and plaques celebrating the favourite pastime or the work of the deceased. (In the accompanying photograph, the person concerned obviously enjoyed hunting.) We understand that placing photographs on graves is soon to be permitted in the UK. A mistake we feel. They all look a bit gruesome here but that’s just our taste and culture we suppose.

All of this ornate, and hideously expensive, celebration of the dead does make us wonder a little. It seems to us inevitable that there will be an element of keeping up with, or outdoing, the neighbours and we do sometimes, in our hard-bitten way, wonder whether the deceased were made as aware in life of how much they were loved as these monuments seemed designed to prove posthumously.

One of our local cemeteries does, however, have a very moving tribute to those from the commune who died in the wars. Many rows of simple crosses stand at the highest point of the cemetery ‘looking out’ over the valley below.

We recently discovered a couple of interesting facts about options for disposing of our mortal remains (long, we hope) in the future. First, with permission from the Mayor, it is possible to be buried on your own premises. This is not too uncommon, certainly in Protestant regions of France, although we feel it might have an adverse effect on the resale value of the house. However, that will be our legatees’ problem, not ours. Second, there are tight rules governing disposal of ashes here. (As France is, at least nominally, a Roman Catholic country, cremation, or ‘incineration’ as it’s known here, is much less common than in Britain.) Apparently, ashes must either be buried in an approved grave plot or interred in a columbarium. They may not be handed to the family for scattering. This rather scuppers Mr A’s intention of having his scattered in the goalmouths at St James’ Park (to ward off away team goals) or, more seriously, on the Northumbrian Coastal Path between Craster and Dunstanburgh. Ah well.